


I Remember Everything

by Kiwibirdlafayette



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: An Excuse to Write Arthuriana for Tales of Arcadia, Angst, Appearance from Douxie’s band Ash Dispersal Pattern, Because I love the Last five years style of storytelling, Ch 2-5 written in Reverse Chronological order (sort of), Fluff, Gen, Its Basically the “Douxie is Mordred” theory, Orkney Brothers, Speculative Wizards fic, Steve Krel and Toby being spies, Story overlap with Arcadia of Avalon because Im just like that, Violence warnings for prologue, Vivienne is the younger sister of Nimue, Zoe is Vivienne because I already started writing and I don't feel like going back to change it all, bad jokes- a lot of them, lots of lyric references, lots of references to mythos, non-canon compliant, written prior to any info about wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwibirdlafayette/pseuds/Kiwibirdlafayette
Summary: I remember everything.From the hills, to the castles,to the plains we would ride forever across.I can still recall the brotherhood, the loyalty that laid between us allThe bonds I could never replace.I still hear the battle cry, the whistling of the winds,filled with words left unsaid.I could never forget.
Relationships: Douxie & Zoe (Tales of Arcadia), Douxie/Original Character
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. PROLOGUE: Shape of the World

**Author's Note:**

> CW FOR DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER (Scene is of the Battle of Camlann)
> 
> (I’m toning it majorly down after this, but please proceed with caution for this chapter specifically! Thank you)

Mordred tried so desperately to shut out the delicate intricacies of the chaotic world that now laid before him.

He had promised Galahad he would lay his life on the line for the others. That he would fight for the love of Camelot until his very last breath.

 _But how tempting power is_ , and how easily swayed he can be.

A man of vengeance, a man of power. 

Yet, he’d never be sure if the end justifies the means.

But he was certain it had to be this way.

The cries of war could be heard echoing like chants and church bells above him, both of victory and of anguish as brothers and sisters fought and fell aside one another for the last time. Lovers held onto each other as tightly as they as steel clashed against steel around them. Arrows whizzed past, puncturing mercilessly into the hearts of those who hadn’t even gotten to give their last goodbye.

Spells could be heard from across the fields of Camlann as Camelot’s remaining sorcerers fought off the armies of the undead, slowly becoming overwhelmed by mounds of bodies reanimated by the work of Morgause. Death marches whistled through the wind like a choir of voices and their disappearing heartbeats.

Driven by the roar of the anger that filled his thoughts, Mordred emerged from underneath a pile of charred shields, cloaks and crossbows with a ferocious grip on the sword of the red hilt.

Discarding his gloves to get a stronger grip on the handle, he furrowed his eyebrows and narrowed his vision, bringing into focus his hunched over target in the distance.

Arthur Pendragon, once an admired king and noble warrior, now leaned forward in utmost weariness watching as his knights fell one by one at the hands of the Arcadians and Morgause’s forces. His sage-tinted eyes cried desperately for help, but no sound could escape his mouth. His crown sat on his head, faded and covered in rust spots, no longer glinting gold, but instead rather dull in the sun as the color of ancient rust becoming decrypt from years rotting in a grave.

Arthur’s frail grip on his sword appeared all the more pathetic. The legendary Excalibur’s previously divine glow had faded to a mere glimmer, something reminiscent of a broken heart doomed to stop beating at any minute.

Now was his chance.

Mordred tightened his already weakened knees, and took a hesitant step forward before nearly recoiling backwards in exhaustion. Gathering himself, he took another strained step forward, followed by another, and another, towards the king.

As his steps increased in tempo, he began to draw the sword higher. From the corners of his eyes, he caught two men he once considered his brothers fight viciously head-to-head. Ahead, a ginger haired piper lies unconscious, his delicate wooden instrument shattered in half over his blood-stained chest.

Mordred fights to keep his eyes drift in that direction.

_It doesn’t matter anymore. Only one thing will ever matter._

He locks eyes with Arthur, letting out a vicious roar. Driven by the force of sheer vengeance, Mordred charges at the feeble king, Caliburn drawn behind his head prepared to complete what destiny had intended for him all along. Around him, giants toppled. Trolls and fae clash head to head in an amalgamation of stone and glass-like shards of magic.

He allows the mystic energy to draw into his blade. He could see it glow with a certain fury out of the corner of his eye as he approached the moment of mislead glory.

The second he stepped into Arthur’s vicinity, his blade was instantly met by the clashing steel of Excalibur, glowing with a newfound enamor.

As the king turned around, gathering his strength to stand back to full height, Mordred could feel the ambivalence emanating from Arthur, as if unaware of the destiny had finally made it’s way to confront him.

“ _Mordred? Wh-_ ”

Mordred refused to answer, and instead ground his teeth together, fiercely swinging his sword back around to be immediately countered by Arthur’s next strike, moving with twice as much force as the last as the king drew up energy from the very bottom of his soul.

_“Stand down!”_

Mordred growled through gritted teeth. _“Never!”_

He could feel the sweat start to cascade down his forehead in streams and pool on his already blood-stained hands with each consecutive block of the sword. Having been fighting off others throughout the entire fight, he had not made his move prepared to take a defensive role in this exchange. He gritted his teeth. He needed to find an opportunity to strike at the King’s heart, like the fangs of a Questing Beast.

He feels his stamina begin to falter. Despite the facade Arthur put up, and the insults in Celtic he had spat in Mordred’s face he played off as jokes, deep down he was still the battle-hardened warrior, merciless king who cared about no one but himself, and bettering the world to his sole image.

_It was him, or Arthur, and nothing after would never be the same._

The battle cry of his brothers could be heard from across the plains, drawing Arthur’s attention away for a brief second, one Mordred thought would be long enough to take that offensive.

He was wrong.

He felt a sharp point pierce through his armor. 

Unknown to Mordred, Arthur’s reflexes, ones he had refined all his life, allowed him to intuitively anticipate the advance, drawing whatever attention he had averted away immediately back to the surface before Mordred could strike.

Looking up, he could see the intensity in the king’s eyes as he drove the tip of Excalibur past the chainmail underneath his armor. His baritone voice spilled out from between gritted teeth.

“ _What happened? Why are you doing this?”_

He could feel the edge of the blade creep between the layers of maile. As Arthur’s voice started to crack and tears appeared at the corners of his eyes, Mordred realized that he didn’t want to kill him.

“ _After everything-_ ”

Mordred clenched his jaw so tightly he was certain his teeth would shatter under the pressure. Regardless of how Arthur might have felt, there were still no choice left.

“- _How could you turn on Camelot like this?”_

Desperate, wrenching words sounded as poison to his ears that seeped into every last inch of Mordred’s being and he felt his knees start to give in. Had it not been for the illuminated magic that flooded his own amber eyes, he might have fallen at that very moment.

Arthur’s pleaded desperation, as if searching for a change of heart.

“ _After all the faith we put in you?”_

For a brief moment, lavender-cerulean whisps emitted from his shoulders, entangling themselves around his forearm and glissading down onto the wrist and hand, giving him barely enough strength to heave the blade from the ground.

Mordred’s subtle movement was enough to cause the king to become frozen as if turned to stone, the tip of Excalibur now hovering right over the knight’s skin.

He already knew he couldn’t change.

He stared vehemently into Arthur’s eyes as he had done only moments before. His knees locked forcefully as he regained his steadiness above the overwhelming ache of every inch of his being.

“You never had faith in me.”

Hands became frail, minds became unwound, and with one final forceful lunge interlaced with the gravity of magic originated in the beginning of time itself-

Arthur’s cry pierced through the battlefield like the wail of a siren, as he raised his face to the sky.

From the wound a beacon of light emitted upward, as if opening the way through to Avalon above.

Within seconds, the king was felled.

Within seconds, the heart of Camelot, the perfect kingdom, shattered into a thousand pieces.

All the world went silent, as every last soul came to and realized what had happened. Swords and shields clattered to the ground, arrows punctured into the ground without a target in sight.

Mordred heaved, and recoiled enough to tear Excalibur from his body. Staring into the king’s lifeless eyes, he felt his heart sink in horror and his throat tightened as if a hand had taken it into its grip.

That couldn’t have been it.

_This could not have been what was meant to happen._

Staggering backwards, Mordred lost all grip on his blade, Caliburn now clattering onto the ground. The leather tunic under his armor darkened as blood spilled from his abdomen as he pulls Arthur’s blade from his own body. Whispering voices, like of those who had fallen that day urged him to hide.

The world began to slow as he grabbed up Excalibur from aside Arthur’s hands. All eyes turned to him.

For the first time in several years, his strings were no longer attached. Whatever had a grasp on him finally let go.

There was nothing left to do but run. 

He could almost hear church bells sounding the death march in a steady adagio as his blood stained cape billowed in the war-torn intermittent wind behind him. Running as fast as his legs could carry him, he fought with every remaining fiber of his being to make it as far from the edge of Eden as he could into the eroded canyon leading into the mountains. The wails of the fallen and those chasing after him echoed alongside the screeching of the rocks scraping up against his obsidian armor and cutting deep into his uncovered hands.

As the final bit of the sun fell beyond the horizon and the heavy clouds began to roll over the field, crying sorrowfully for the loss of the king, Mordred fell onto his knees, using Excalibur, who’s blade was now drenched a shade of red matching that of the smudged cross on his brooch, to hold him from completely collapsing.

Once the rain torrents slowed to a soft drizzle, Mordred dragged himself into a nearby cavern, using the last ounces of his unstable stamina to pull the armor from his person and discard it onto a nearby stone.

The rattle of his chainmail pulled off his person revealed the wound that dealt excruciating pain even his own fortitude-like will could not withstand any longer. Uttering one last spell from his broken and bruised lips, he allowed the last of his magic to seep into his flesh to begin healing.

Immediately after, embraced by the near proximity of rock walls, Mordred succumbed to the exhaustion he had not been able to feel until now. He was certain that had he not had any magical ancestry, he might have been felled by now.

He brings his legs to his chest and yields to the desperate call for slumber. Perhaps it would clear his mind of the horrors he had allowed himself to become victim to.

He would try to shut it away, but all he saw was the terror. The helplessness in Arthur’s eyes. The king’s soul disintegrate into nothingness. The rage he’d allowed to cloud all sense of what made him a knight of the Round Table.

Galahad was always right about one thing. He had always been too young and blind to see. History had finally given him a place to stay for eternity.

Around him, the sun would rise and set on a kingdom striving to rebuild itself, until revenge would pull it apart again in a vicious, seemingly endless cycle at the hands of Arcadians, knights and Avalonians alike.

Mordred hoped a century would pass. Or a millenia. Perhaps, the world might end. As it turns out, hope is an empty emotion, a false light in the dark. He knew that now.

Much to his destation, Merlin would eventually seek to give him as prominent a role in history as promised. While not ideal, it became the catalyst to meeting two individuals who will be there when no one else should have his back.

Together, they would wander from plains, through fathomless caverns, to crossing miles of endless ocean. There was always that kind of familiar feeling, a kind of little wonder he had missed after the Grail Quest had ended. More often than not, he didn’t enjoy the kinds of emotions it would invoke.

In moments of silence, he would try to distract himself with being the old wizard’s apprentice, aiding in keeping the Arcadians in line, but alas, it would never be enough to justify forgetting all that had happened. As the years faded away, he himself could never fade with it, no matter how much he wished that he could.

And once Merlin was gone, it was just three of them.

He no longer knew what was in store next.

Not Mordred, anyway.

But Douxie would know. And maybe this time, he’d have better luck.


	2. I: The Arcadian Symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lies in the core of expression? How can we define the beauty in the sense of self? If it truly does exist, and if it has been lost, 
> 
> Can we ever find that again?

“Hey! wake up, your shift starts in an hour.” 

Douxie’s eyes jolted open as the mid-morning light spilled in through the tinted windows of the record shop, and through his door.

Around him on every wall sat shelves full of all sorts of memorabilia from vintage guitars to annual posters for the various comic conventions that take place a couple towns over. A stack of flyers from the time Ash Dispersal Pattern opened for Papa Skull sits on the corner of a dresser with a mass of black colored clothing spilling out of it. An inconspicuous portrait hangs from the backmost wall, a torn eggplant purple cloak covering whatever image the frame contained. A copy of  _ Gawain and the Green Knight _ is left open to a center page in the middle of the floor, littered in annotations started, but not quite finished. 

The first thing he smelled was not the boxes of ancient tomes that inhabited his room (which he had meant to take next door to GDT’s), but rather the pile of clothing that he had been meaning to take to the laundromat for nearly a week now. How unfortunate for his motivation that he never has quite enough time, and far too many band shirts from past concerts he’s attended that will be enough to justify not doing laundry for the rest of the week. 

Luckily, a small breeze blew in the more appealing, musky smell of vintage records, effectively masking the stench as he slowly sat up from his lower bunk bed careful not to bump his head, breathing heavily. Not that hitting his head would really matter, as it already pulsed with pain from his cruel consciousness reminding him of the days in the past by means of exhausting dreams night after night. 

He hadn’t been having these nights of torment for some time after coming back to this town and wished he couldn’t understand why all of a sudden they’d manifest out what would be nowhere to just anyone else. It wasn’t like Morgana and Merlin’s champions, and themselves for that matter, came back out of nowhere into the limelight during the Eternal Night, or it wasn’t as if Gaylen’s core suddenly resurfaced a mere week ago after being tucked away for  _ centuries _ .

He rolled his eyes, tucking his permanently blue tipped hair behind his ears. How he had allowed Vivienne to convince him it was a good idea for a permanent spell invention remains beyond him. No dye has ever been able to fix it since and while he does like the color a lot, it's starting to get old. Like,  _ ‘200, maybe more, plus 18 years of the same color’ _ old. 

“Hey goth fuck, did you hear me? I know you take three thousand years to get ready, so you better like, get moving right now.”

The door swung open with a sforzando-like force, revealing to his ears the muffled crackle of the newest Panic at the Disco song sounding from the slowly dying radio sitting behind the counter. His  _ friend _ had insisted on buying that practically broken old device from Stuart’s Electronics last week against the other’s obviously better judgement.

This slightly stupid friend (in his opinion at least, she’d likely say the opposite is true) of course, happened to be the infamous ‘Lady’ Vivenne of the rose pink hair (not to be confused with her older sister Nimue, the watery tart and strange woman lying in ponds distributing swords) who was now leaning up against the doorframe, obviously annoyed to have been assigned to the role of human alarm clock. Completely American-ized in personality and emotionally done for about seventy-percent of the day, Douxie often forgot she had once hailed from Avalon many, many years ago. 

Then again, maybe that was her intention. 

Douxie slipped on his skull necklace and stood up, sauntering close enough to make sure he could lean over to sneer down at Vivienne. “Yes, I  _ did,  _ you _ twat _ .” He stuck his tongue out at her. “And I’m not the one who takes that long to get ready, I think you’re thinking about yourself.”

Vivienne cackled. “Right. Right. Me, who wears ten pounds of hair gel in my hair.”

“It's a miracle product, and I don’t enjoy my hair loosely falling everywhere.”

Vivienne flipped her bangs out of her face, mumbling under her breath. “A little change might do you some good. Maybe then you’d stop looking like you fell out of a medieval production of  _ Rocky Horror _ .” 

“What?”

“Nothing. I didn't say anything. ” 

" _Sure._ "

Douxie pulled his beaten up white belt around his trousers, and grabbed a jacket off the floor. “Also, you don’t have to scream at me every morning. At least Archie would have given me at least a couple minutes to respond before bursting through the door.”

She scoffed. “You and I both know that’s not even the slightest bit true.” 

“Maybe not for you, but Archie is just ever so slightly nicer to me and I’m so absolutely sorry that I can’t change that.”

“Ha! In your wildest dreams, buddy.”

Douxie pulled on his boots, still slightly stained with goblin blood, which, as it turns out, is surprisingly hard to get out of leather. “But isn’t it true he favors  _ one _ of us over the other, just from our knowledge of him?”

“Again, you must be imagining some other Archie, because if you ask me, he pretty much finds us equally annoying.”

“You’re still worse in his eyes. He’s told me in  _ confidence  _ before.”

Vivinne scoffed, releasing a laugh of disbelief. “Oh has he? Has he also told you that he knows you sleep in until the last possible minute  _ every single morning? _ ”

“Pfht, I’m a  _ teenager  _ Viv, it’s in my blood.” Douxie grabbed his wristband and gave her a light slap on the forearm before wrapping them around his wrist. “Don’t make me pull the sword on you. I will if I absolutely have to-”

Vivenne cackled and slapped the door frame so hard out of nowhere, part of Douxie wondered if she was about to break it again, nearly howling as she spoke. “Pfht, nineteen is not a teenager, idiot.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And  _ please _ , we both know goddamn well that sword you keep threatening me with is still in the wrinkled, stinky hands of M-”

“Douxie Pendragon Lothson! Lady Vivienne!!” 

Blatantly condescending English accent. The fact that the door had been swung open, but there was no visible individual walking through. No footsteps could be heard but there was still an air of pretentious energy that could be felt. Just from the mere knowledge there was someone was now in there taking a stroll ensured that neither of them could assume it was a ghost.

Splendid. Archie was home. 

Vivenne’s raucous laughter was interrupted by the elegant skittering of paws onto the counter, bringing into a view a black cat,one who somehow ended up with the exact same eye color as Douxie, and wore what a local boy named Tobias had once referred to as ‘Harry Potter glasses’. 

Just as he had expected, his face spoke only to the disappointment that they had both become so well adjusted to over the years. 

“Are you two planning to get any work done today, or were you planning to simply sit there prattling on about irrelevant tomfoolery?”

Vivienne shrugged and went over to turn down the radio which had now transitioned to providing more town discussions then music. “I don’t know about Deuce, but I’ve been working since eight. I just paused to wake him up.”

_ Bulshigal.  _

Douxie picked a coat off the floor and tossed it over his shoulder. “Archie, please, I just woke up, I was about to get to work.” 

“Absolutely right you are! I didn’t raise you to be no dosser.”

_ Yeah, sure, but you didn’t exactly raise me.  _

“... Right.”

As Vivienne pretended to get back to looking busy with work, Douxie came out from his room doorway, ignoring Archie’s judgmental glare to head upstairs to the employee bathroom while adjusting the leather around his wrist to ensure his largest scars were covered. 

Of course, he had been lied to, no scar from a magical sword was ever going to go away, which meant he only had to try twice as hard to hide it. 

Not even moments later, he could hear Archie’s voice through the bathroom door. 

“By the way, do not forget that it is crucial we access and open the vault as soon as possible! Or, have we forgotten the end of days is soon upon us?”

“I haven’t forgotten!” he replied, muffled through a mouth full of toothpaste. It wasn’t like he wasn’t reminded about it  _ yesterday.  _ So what if he’s the only one that can open it? It’s not like they were going to find King Arthur’s reincarnation tomorrow and restore the balance of Arcadia before the three major factions went to war with each other over some stupid blue crystal that possessed the power of creation. He spit into the sink.

Because like, what a miracle that would be. 

Letting the water splash onto his face, Douxie stared into the mirror, briefly thinking oddly profoundly about miracles. He never quite believed in them but there was always something wonderful about the thought of them. They weren’t exactly possible by fate, nor the power that stretched across the land from Avalon.

No, it really was something else.

When he came out, Archie had left, likely to go and do more of whatever’s considered ‘wizard’s associate business’. Knowing it wasn’t worth his time to ask Vivienne where he went, he figured he might as well just get out before he returned and got nagged on again. After all, the cafe wasn’t going to run itself, and he’d be damned to hell if he was about to be scolded for being late to his other job. 

Before leaving, he ran back into his room to grab his book and phone out from the heaping pile of laundry. He had made the mistake of not having something to do during slow days once, and ended up having to be his co-worker Lindsey’s personal therapist. The thought of having to hear her overshare about her messy love life again made him shudder. 

Certainly there must have been other people she could talk to than him. 

Besides, reading and recalling the adventures of a knight that he once knew so well sounded much more interesting anyways. 

For once, he was actually grateful to be woken up, even if he wasn’t exactly having the greatest morning in the history of his life in Arcadia Oaks. At least he had forgotten about his recurring nightmare by now. Mostly because having Archie remind him about the inevitable end of the world was a nightmare enough. 

He could tell Vivienne about the nightmares later. It wasn’t exactly a matter of complete importance right now. 

Douxie threw on his headphones and set his current favorite playlist to shuffle as he made his exit out the front door of the shop. He’d have time to deal with the past when the time came. He had money to make, band rehearsals to attend, and a self-fulfilling quest to deal with just three blocks down the street. 

He began fingering the guitar chords and riffs along with the music on his left arm, careful to ensure his placement was as accurate as possible even without the presence of frets there. Every amount of practice would pay off, especially considering that they might be performing again soon. 

He allowed himself to become engulfed in the rhythms and the subtle nuances of the music, a momentary escape for the time being seeing that this was going to be a long week. Sometimes, he wished life in Arcadia Oaks would be a little bit more like life back on Orkney. Less responsibility, someone always looking out for you.

Ah, the life of a young prince.

——————————

_ “Mordy! Are you awake?” _

_ Mordred’s eyes fluttered away from the page of the book he was reading, now drawn to the muffled call of what could have only been one of his brothers, calling through the tranquil morning breeze that blew across the northern island of Orkney.  _

_ He turned his head towards the window being hit with a soft patter of rain and slid out of bed, straightening his tunic. He waddled hastily over to the window, climbing onto a chest that allowed him to peer out the window down at the boys playing below on the grass about a floor below him.  _

_ Shattered and broken as some grownups would say, Mordred loved his family, well, as much as any youngest sibling could love a family where he often felt like the odd one out.  _

_ Sure, maybe he didn’t have the deep mahogany-tinted hair of his brothers, or the gusto of their father, but at least he had his mother’s magic.  _

_ And that was enough for him.  _

_ He was always drawn to the bustle of the castle. There was always something about the constant pacing of servants up and down the hallways, accompanied by a steady shower of drizzling rain pattering on the vines and balconies that he enjoyed staring out onto the moors from.  _

_ His drifting thoughts were interrupted by a second call that came from below.  _

_ “Mordy! Come outside and play with us!” _

_ Peeking his head out the window allowed him to get a faceful of Agravaine and Gareth, both wearing worn down cloaks, a shade of brown now matching their mud-caked braids. Each of them held a tree branch in their hand fashioned into an archaic sword.  _

_ He called back in the loudest voice he could muster. “I’m reading a book! Mommy said not tae get dirty, there’s go’na be a fancy party t’night!” _

_ Agravaine scoffed. “The lads arenae coming for another week! The party isn’t tonight ye bloody fool!-” He turned to Gareth. “Right?” His brother could only shrug and go back to picking up his makeshift ‘sword’ from the ground and tuck in back into his belt.  _

_ Before Mordred could provide a rebuttal, the door swung open to Gawain, his oldest brother, with several multicolored tunics draped over his shoulder. His wildly curly black hair swung back and forth frantically in front of his face as he looked around the room, eventually picking out Mordred from amongst the chaos.  _

_ “Where are your brothers?” _

_ Mordred knew better than to try and explain their whereabouts and related antics, opting to instead just point to the window. _

_ Gawain strode hastily over, dropping the collection of tunics on a bed, and stuck his head out, careful not to hit Mordred. His voice was much clearer through the rain.  _

_ “Aggy! What are ye doing?” _

_ Agravaine, obviously annoyed. "Playing, dumb!” _

_ “Did ya forget about the party? Yer both a mess, mom’s gonna have yer head!” _

_Agravaine stuck his tongue out and whispered something to Gareth, probably along the lines of ‘my brother’s an idiot, and heard momma wrong’, Mordred figured, peeking out from behind Gawain. “No it's_ _not!_ _Yer wrong!”_

_ Gawain raised an eyebrow, and stuck his head further out the window. “Really? I literally jus’ came from talking to her. He crossed his arms. “Do I need mum tae come and tell ye herself?” _

_ “No no!” _

_ Gareth began emptying his pockets of sticks and rocks, his voice sounding almost frantic. “We’re coming, we’re coming G’wain! Don’t tell mom!” _

_ Satisfied with the two making their way back into the castle, Gawain turned around and handed Mordred a tunic from the pile he picked up off the bed.“Put that on, and come downstairs when yer’ done. I need to go help them clean up.” _

_ “But wha if I don't want to wear it?” _

_ Gawain sighed. “Do ye wanna make momma sad?” _

_ Mordred shook his head. He never liked to disappoint his mother, no matter what.  _

_ Gawain crouched down “Then put it on, and go downstairs to find Gaheris. Momma will be very proud if ye do.” He took the edge of the tunic and adjusted it so that Mordred would only have to slip it over his head. _

_ Mordred nodded and took a look at the freshly commissioned garment, while Gawain, now satisfied, left to go and wrangle his other brothers.  _

_ Unlike most of his clothing constructed from leather, this shirt was sewn from what Gaheris would call eggplant purple velvet, embroidered with an intricate lavender pattern in the shape of wisps. He pulled it over his tunic and could instantly feel the regality breathe into him as he flattened out the wrinkles over his arms and shoulders.  _

_ He would be sad when he outgrew it. Maybe he’d refashion it into a cape if that ever were to happen.  _

_ ———- _

_ When Mordred comes downstairs, he is greeted by the rush of servants and chefs hurrying about the main hall, moving objects of various significance scattered around the room. Knights and guardsmen stood at the perimeter and in the center, some assisting with setting things out. Banners of the king surround the perimeter, mixed with a few of the neighboring ally kingdom of Aldior, Mordred remembered, was the special visitors coming for the weekend.  _

_ Because of the patches of blue magic surrounding objects hovering across the ceiling, Mordred was able to quickly pick out his mother from the crowd, wearing one of her fanciest garnet dresses, the look completely an elaborate golden crown neatly placed atop on her head. To her left, stood the third brother Gaheris, standing next to her in a sapphire tunic similar to his own. _

_ “Momma! Gaheris!” _

_ Mordred shoved his way between two knights to latch onto his mother’s dress, causing her to nearly drop a chair she was moving over the heads of a crowd of servants which… would not have been very good.  _

_ Instead of immediately acknowledging him, and letting him affectionately greet his brother first, Morgause sent her attention away for a moment to lower it safely, before turning to her youngest son.  _

_ “Mordred, sweetie- you’re.. you’re dressed already!” _

_ Mordred smiled proudly, and grabbed her hand. “Gawain ‘elped me! He said you would be very proud if I was dressed.” _

_ She smiled back. “And I am very proud of you.” She leaned over to pick him up in one arm, causing Gaheris to not-so-subtly roll his eyes and straighten his own royal tunic. Morguase simply sighed endearingly and returned to assisting with the preparations, engaging in conversation with several of the handmaidens. _

_ While observing the organized chaos now above from a good majority of the crowd, Mordred spotted Gareth, dressed in teal, tumbling down a staircase trailed by Agravaine and Gawain, were laughing and facepalming respectively. _

_ The second Gaheris spotted them, Mordred watched as he ran over to muss up his twin brother’s hair, and likely spout some kind of ill-intended insult about the color of his tunic and the style of his braids. Gaheris likes to pretend that he knows more about fashion than anyone else, and because they were the same age, that usually made Gareth the blunt of most of these jokes. Within the minute, they had run off to likely cause trouble because in general, if it wasn’t Agravaine being an enabler for mischief, it was Gaheris.  _

_ Obviously having tired with watching his three idiotic brothers, Gawain, now dressed in an elegant vermillion uniform, with his hair tied up in a set of neatly done braids as the crown prince, sludged over to Morgause, a regretful expression on his face as if preparing to apologize for the other two’s behavior. Mordred simply stared down at his brother, unsure if he was meant to grab their mother’s attention.  _

_ Before Gawain could say anything, the bustle of the hall was abruptly drowned out by the playing of bugles, accompanied by the sound of bagpipes from outside.  _

_ All attention turned to the entrance to the hall, where King Lot stumbled in, slightly disheveled, trailed by a handful of knights. Because he was out scouting so often, and doing kingly things, Lot wasn’t exactly the most familiar person to Mordred. Nonetheless, he was the man Mordred has always considered to be his father, even if he knew from the rumors there was no truth to that statement.  _

_ He gestured to Morgause, who walked over to him and whispered something to her, which she then announced to the crowd. _

_ “The procession of Alidor will be here any moment!” Murmurs could be heard across the crowd. “Complete what'er tasks ya are able tae, then let us all get to our places!” _

_ Everyone paused for a brief moment to figure exactly what exactly they could accomplish in such a short while, and with minor hesitation, immediately completed their tasks and all else in sufficient haste to his mother’s satisfaction.  _

_ He enjoyed seeing her happy.  _

_ After Gawain had wrangled the other two, Mordred found himself standing next to their father as the entourage came in what must have been 15 minutes later. Dressed similarly to their family, the royal folks introduced themselves as the King and Queen of the Alidor, accompanied by a lot of knights in kilts and the crown prince Dagonet to their right.  _

_ Unlike most other Scotian princes that came to visit his mum and dad, Mordred noticed Dagonet was a lot different. His hair was not as tightly braided, but rather unkempt as if he had done them in the last possible moment. His tunic, unlike the elaborate dressings of his parents, were rather drab and closer to the nearby squires, lacking any bold colors or aureateness. Instead of having a sword attached through a belt loop, he had a brown leather satchel pulled over his shoulder with the neck of the lute sticking out from the main pocket.  _

_ The king did not exactly look happy, meaning that Dagonet probably wasn’t supposed to be dressed like that. His mum was definitely not proud of him.  _

_ He kept his eyes on the prince through the following meeting in the council room, which he had decided to accompany his mother to, not particularly interested in running around with Agravaine. From the fidgeting and constant yawning he could tell Dagonet didn’t really want to listen to kings, queens and Gawain discuss strategy and politics for many hours.  _

_ In fact, the second a servant came upstairs to announce the beginning of the feast, the prince bolted off to join the partying that was about to commence downstairs.  _

_ As the event went on, Mordred continued to stay latched onto his mother’s dress while she socialized with others, providing some entertainment to these small groups of guests with small parlor magic tricks he had mastered as of late. Eventually, he had begun to wander off more and more, until he found himself in the center with no one in particular he had recognized. Focusing on his surroundings with the hope of locating Gawain, he was able to pick up a sound, and curious, ran in that direction until he ran into someone. _

_ Standing a foot or so above him was the back of whom he figured must be a maiden, strumming a tune on the lute. With wild red hair flowing down onto the small of their back, they were dressed in the finest materials Mordred had seen in Orkney to date. He stood briefly frozen as he admired the emerald-toned velvet, covered in Celtic symbols embroidered in pure gold along the neckline, a pattern fit for a noble of any kind.  _

_ Wanting to grab their attention, seeing as no one else would give him, he tugged at the individual’s sleeve, gently enough, he hoped.  _

_ Taken aback, the musician stopped playing dead in the middle of the phrase, and Mordred hoped he hadn’t angered them by interrupting. As they turned around, he braced for the outburst of fury, being told to bugger off.  _

_ Instead, he was met by the friendly eyes of none other than Prince Dagonet. For the first time, Mordred could clearly hear his incredibly thick accent, perhaps even rivaling Lot's.  _

_ “‘Ey there! Mordre’d wasn’t it?” _

_ Mordred nodded. He almost had to wonder if he was talking to the same person, especially since his clothes were a lot nicer than it was when he had seen him earlier, and he seemed so much more.. alive . “Prince Dagonet? What happened to your other clothes?” _

_ He nodded. “Aye, yes t’at’s me! But you can call me Robin, because I’m in my party clothes,” He gestured down at his new tunic. “-And not my silly ol’ meeting clothes.” _

_ Mordred repeated the name a couple times to himself under his breath.  _ Robin. Robin.  _ “Like the bird?” _

_ Robin chuckled. “Aye, like the bird.” _

_ Mordred smiled. “T’ats very fun! I wish I had a bird name.” _

_ “You most certainly could have one, I could imagine ye being a raven.”  _

_ Mordred smiled. “I do like ravens! They are pretty birds.” _

_ “They are, I can agree wit’ that!” Robin moved his lute slightly to the side, gesturing a message to the other bards. “I saw ye doin magic tricks over there earlier, you a wizard?” _

_ Mordred shrugged. “Sort of. I’m still learning, I’m not very good.”  _

_ “Aw, I doubt that. You seem pretty good at it from what I saw.” Another bard dragged up a chair beside him, and Robin gestured for him to sit which Mordred did without hesitation, curious to see where this was going. “Hey, do ye like learning new things?” _

_ Mordred nodded. “Aye! Learning is fun and mum says I oughta learn as much as I can.” _

_ Robin’s eyes lit up. “Fantastic! I must know.. Have you ever heard about Arcadian music?” _

_ Mordred raised an eyebrow at him. He had heard Gawain practicing squire music before, but he didn’t think it was called the same as the kind Robin mentioned. “Arcadian music?” _

_ Robin brough the lute back up to its playing position, pulling the strap over his shoulder. “Yeah, ye know like Arcadians. The ma’gical folks.” _

_ “Like me?” _

_ A couple of the bards surrounding him quietly chuckled, Robin included. “No, no, like the trolls. The fae.” _

_ It took him a second. “Ohhh. I know me mum’s a fae. Is that bad?” _

_ “Oh, absolutely not!” Robin patted Mordred on the shoulder. “It’s actually ‘ery neat. The Avalonian fae have very pretty melodies.” He strummed a quick eight-beat phrase. “That one I learned from Lady Nimue.” _

_ Mordred looked at Robin in awe. “That was so pretty! Wait.. Nimue, like, the real lady of the lake?” _

_ Robin nodded. “Yup, met her last time we were in Eliard. And this one-” he plucked a heavily syncopated rhythm out. “-is trollish.” _

_ “Trolls taught you music? But aren’t they mean?” _

_ Robin lifted a finger. “Not if yer not mean to them first.” He fiddled with the pitch of one of the string courses. “Most of them are actually really nice.”  _

_ “Huh.” _

_ He brought the lute upright on his lap. “Ye want to try? Maybe yer magic will add a little flair, if ye know what I mean.” _

_ “I don’t know what that means.” _

_ “Ha, that’s alright. Ye’r still young.” Robin snickered quietly and held the instrument out for Mordred, who hesitantly reached out to grab it.  _

_ The neck happened to be significantly too long for the young boy, making it difficult for Mordred to get it in to sit in his lap nicely. The body pushed up against his chin and his legs, the rose and bridge already sticking out too far for him to strum properly.  _

_ One of the other bards walked over and attempted to help him straighten it out from behind, while Mordred sat awkwardly, to no avail. “Ay.. Oi, Dags, I think this one’s too big for the lad-” She stood up. “You’re not carrying a smaller one, are ye?” _

_ Robin shakes his head. “Nope…” He pondered over the situation for a moment. “But-” he got up to stand directly behind Mordred, and whispered in his ear. “You still remember that trick you showed my mum? The one where ye made the leaf really tiny?”  _

_ Mordred nodded. _

_ “Try it on this.” _

_ “But won’t that hurt its feelings? Then you can’t play it.” _

_ “Ah, don’t worry about it, I can always get a new one.” He crouched down on the other side of Mordred’s chair. “Go ahead, gi'v it a try.”  _

_ Mordred turns to look down at the mesmerizing pattern of the rose on the instrument body below his chin, and brings all his focus into getting the image stuck in his head when he closes his eyes. Repeating the spell in his head over and over, it takes several seconds before he garners the confidence to cast it, producing a small ball of glistening purple. _

_ Afraid of what he might have done, he slowly opens his eyes back to Robin and the other lady staring back at him in awe.  _

_ Robin’s agape expression slowly transitioned into a huge grin.“Now  _ _ that  _ _ was pretty neat.” He stood up and walked over to kneel down in front of Mordred. “Ye can play it now!” _

_ Mordred looked down. The spell had worked… sort of. The instrument hadn’t shrunk as much as he had wanted, decreasing maybe only by 2 inches in all directions. At least, now, he could get his arm around it and reach most of the frets.  _

_ He looked up at Robin. “So… How does it work?” _

_ “Ehrm.. right right!.” He took Mordred’s hand and positioned them on the neck and body. “Let’s start with a simple tune.” _

_ Mordred listened intently for the next hour or so as Robin and his friend (whom he finally introduced as Herberta), explained how to play the instrument- from the placement of the fingers on the frets, to the passionate precision of the fingers for strumming and plucking each of the notes.  _

_ Every group of fingers touching the necks formed a note. Each grouping of notes formed a phrase. Every grouping of phrases was a song. If one was missing, it would sadly be incomplete. _

_ Much to the surprise of all involved, Mordred was able to pick up the concepts with a great deal of ease, and had even managed to learn the beginning of a tune (jig, Robin called it) by the end of the night.  _

_ Herberta was incredibly impressed, and had even asked him if he’d join them at the tavern. ‘When he’s older’ is what he responds to her. He is only 7 years, after all, barely old enough to be a page.  _

_ Coming up with as many excuses as possible to get out of war meetings, Dag-, erhm, Robin, made as many attempts as he could over the next week to meet with Mordred and teach him the rest of the tune. He continued to be the faster learner that the prince says he’s ever taught.  _

_ Mordred was very impressed with how many tunes the prince could have memorized over the years of meeting with Arcadians, and how he could play them just off a whim, and hoped, maybe, one day he could get there too.  _

_ He asks Robin why he is a prince if he wants to be a bard. Robin goes quiet, and only tells Mordred one thing that he ends up remembering for many years later.  _

_ “Ye don’t get to pick where you start in life. And most folks will try their absolute best to keep ye there. But your past and present ain’t your future. Ye can change it.. little by little, step by step. If ye don’t give it up, it won’t be so hard, and eventually... Maybe you'll be closer to where you want tae be." _

_ Several years would pass after the evening when Dagonet sadly left back home with his family, and Mordred continued to wonder if he would ever come back to teach him more. After all, he had to prove he was diligently practicing after all, and that what he had said about adding magic to melody was right.  _

_ It does add quite a bit of flair to it.  _

_ He is the age of a squire when the Alidor royals finally return for another meeting, Robin is not with them, only another around Gareth’s age named Domnall. The king tries to convince Lot and Morgause they never had a son named Dagonet, and asks if Mordred would like to rule a joint kingdom with Domnall someday.  _

_ He respectfully declines of course. If Robin really did run away from home like Lady Herberta said, he probably had a good reason.  _

_ Mordred is expected to take up knight business, just as his brothers had, and to become proficient spellcasting from his mother. It does get busy at times with all other things, but he doesn’t give up music. He continues practicing the way Robin Dagonet said to for years after that, even if sometimes his brother’s might make fun of a prince learning the ways of a jester. He doesn’t mind. He knows they do it out of love.  _

_ Gawain leaves to become a knight of Camelot merely a year later. Soon, Agravaine, Gareth and Gaheris follow suit. Mother keeps saying they’ll be back in due time. Until then, it’s just him, her and King Lot. It gets lonely sometimes.  _

_ Luckily, he was glad to have a means of escape from the real world, for having one was never a bad thing after all.  _

—————-

Four songs finish playing by the time he makes it over the restaurant, to get ready for the hell that would come with people coming in for lunch, an after work hangout, and eventually dinner. 

Like every day, he arrives into the kitchen to several stacks of dirty dishes from the early morning breakfast rush, crudely left behind. His co-worker Thomas had obviously forgotten to wash before leaving for classes. Luckily, not too many people had come in since then, but knowing that high schoolers skipping lunch did enjoy coming by around noon, he most certainly would be needing them very soon. 

And, knowing that Martha would kick both their asses the second she stepped in for the afternoon of strict managing, he figured he might as well bail Tom out  _ one last time.  _ After that, he’d let him face her wrath and finally learn a thing or two about being lazy on the job. 

He glanced around, and not seeing anyone through the shop window at the time, waved his fingers around, sending waves of gold dust across the piles left on the counter, causing them to begin hovering over his head. 

Feeling ambitious, and forgetting that exactly he was still technically in a public space, he mutters a spell, and without hesitation, the dishes begin washing themselves and stacking neatly on a nearby counter in a perfect rhythmic manner. Just as he was taught by his aunt all those years ago. 

Satisfied, Douxie sits down to finish reading his book, keeping one eye on the door. About a couple minutes later, just as the spell is wearing off and the dishes are returning to their respective shelves, a short boy wearing a red and yellow sweater vest walks in and sees right past the counter to witness and make eye contact with him as he stands up to turn around, lifting his hands and wrists to begin to un-enchanting the room. 

Shit. 


End file.
